behind the gates
by combeferring
Summary: You are the girl with the flames for hair and the skin the colour of moonlight. Maybe you are insane —- Lily/Teddy.


**authors notes: **not entirely sure where this came from, don't know what inspired it but. Nothing is mine save the plot and thanks to the lovely PrincessPearl for making the image thingy for me.

Also this is rated M for drug abuse, sex and language. If you find this triggering, _don't read_.

Please don't favourite without leaving a review, thank you!

* * *

**behind the gates  
**_teddy/lily_

* * *

You would quite like to be saved. No, that's not right. _Quite like_ doesn't fit, you don't mean that. Like doesn't cover it—like is how you like James buying you a Quidditch ticket. It's alright, you might crack a smile, but it doesn't make you deliriously happy or anything. And happy is too emotional for you anyway so no, that's not right either. You want to be saved and, more importantly, you _need _to be saved. You thirst for it (another rather odd term, _to thirst for_, because thirst is when you need a drink but it works here, in this context, so you'll take it).

Yes, you thirst to be saved.

You sit on your windowsill, dangling your legs and watching the people below you. They seem so small, so insignificant, from your perch above them – ON TOP OF THE WORLD, LOOK AT ME I'M ON TOP OF THE WORLD you scream inside – and you wonder if they can see you. They must be able to; you are the girl with the flames for hair and the skin the colour of moonlight. The girl with the uncontrollable eyes and bare flesh, with the two brothers who seem to be worried all the time.

You are impossible to miss.

Except that has a double meaning, doesn't it? You are impossible to miss in both uses of the word—people cannot help but see you, there is something about you like the desperation in your chest that attracts attention and also when people leave your life, they cannot wish you were back with them.

They have reasons for it, of course they do. Too volatile, too wild, too reckless. Too strange, too mad, too impulsive.

No-one understands you. No-one tries to either.

You don't care.

From where you sit, five storeys above the streets, you make paper chains. The bare walls close in on you in your room, like you are trapped in a box with no way to escape, so you sit on the sill so you can breathe, so you can see the sky, and cut up photos into strips, bending the card to form a link. Paper chains. Brilliant, that is.

It makes you feel better, like slicing through photographs is physically cutting people out of your life. It feels good to do it, to pretend you have nothing to do with all the family who don't understand you.

You realise that little diamonds litter your lap. No, not diamonds. The wrong description again, WRONG AGAIN you cannot think of how to say it. No, wait. Diamond shaped, yes, that's it. You were close the first time. Diamond shaped pieces of photograph.

The drift to the floor like leaves from the tree you climbed as a child. They were on your lap seconds ago—why are they now falling from the sky?

Oh.

You lost control. You didn't mean to do that.

FUCK.

And then three knocks on the door. They are loud knocks, obnoxious knocks, and you turn slightly to scout out the door. You brush the pieces of photograph from your knees and watch them catch in the air like confetti. That reminds you—it's Tuesday, the wedding was Saturday. You have missed it. Dominique might kill you.

He's in your room now. When did that happen? You don't remember that, you don't remember the door opening. You can't have missed it so how did he get in? Oh, he looks worried again.

"What're you doing hanging out the window?" he asks you. "Come inside."

His fingers close around your wrist, pulling you into the box NO I DON'T WANT TO GO IN THERE NO NO NO STOP IT NO whilst you remain rigid, shaking your head firmly.

"'S dangerous," he says finally, pausing for breath and looking into your eyes and you simply thrust your chin into the air.

He grabs you, arms tight around your waist as he hauls you inside to sit on the bed. The ceiling descends and you try to wriggle free but he is there, taller and stronger, able to pin you down.

"Jesus fuck," he grinds out, trying to hold you still against the bed as you thrash wildly because IT'S ALL CLOSING IN I CAN'T BREATHE SAVE ME SOMEONE PLEASE you're scared.

And then he's calling out, calling for help, and someone else is there. Voices, voices, merging together. Babble. Meaningless. Until—

"What the fuck have you taken?"

White powder—white like snow, you love snow. Yes, love. Snow is beautiful and clean and untouched. It's perfect. You want to be perfect like the powder is, like the powder that's arranged in lines on the table and a bag of coloured tablets spills over on your pillow. And a water bottle but that water burns a path down your throat like a bare flame and it's orange-y. No, no, stop again. There's a special colour, there's a name for it, what's that name? Amber. It's amber. It's firewhiskey. Oh, now it's coming back.

You smile at them both, standing above you and your smile is so wide it splits your face but they don't grin back.

"What have you taken?"

The question again, I AM FLYING LET ME FLY but this time it is more insistent. Hands are on your face, trying to make you look into someone's eyes but the hands are hot and sweaty. Hot, like they have been on a kettle. You hate the heat, you like it cold so you don't burn. The curse of red hair, your mother used to say as she slathered you in sun-cream. When you were little—shit, when did you get so old?

You speak. You don't mean to, but you find your mouth moves by itself DAMN IT ALL. You voice is rusty, unused, out of practice but still yours.

"What're you doing?" NO GET OFF ME DON'T TOUCH ME.

"Saving you," someone says.

This isn't what you imagined.

-:-

People come to see you.

You watch the ceiling as they gather around your bed. It's a pink ceiling—who the fuck paints a ceiling pink?

They ask questions. Lots and lots of questions CAN THEY ALL FUCK OFF PLEASE and you don't want to answer them. Their questions are absurd. Absurd is a good word, you like that word. Absurd, absurd, absurd.

"How are you?"

It's something they ask you every time they come. Sometimes you ignore them and stare at the pink ceiling. You do that most of the time, when you think about it. But you don't like to think. It hurts.

Other times you grow sarcastic, irritable.

"Peachy."

It's always your response when they catch you in a sarcastic mood—every time. But then, afterwards, you wonder why you say it. Peachy. Peaches are fruit, the kind your Mum always has in the fruit bowl that burst with sticky juice. When you were a kid, in Muggle primary school, you painted a picture of peaches. It's on the kitchen door. But why do people say they are 'peachy'? What does the word have to do with how someone is?

You don't know. You don't know much.

What you do know is how people feel about you. Your Mum: disappointment. Your Dad: worry. He worries a lot—he always has done—but whenever he comes to sit with you, he looks like a wreck. You find yourself caring more than you would like.

And finally your brothers. They take their time coming. In all fairness, no-one comes when you first arrive. Only strangers, people you don't know, and they leave you to suffer. Your heart races, fluttering like a bird trapped at your ribcage and you alternate between throwing up so violently that your throat hurts and seeing men with red eyes and freckles lurking in the corners of the room.

After you start to feel better—no, not better, but more like—no, forget that. You don't feel better, you feel strange—and the family descends like an avalanche. Avalanche. You've never seen an avalanche. You'd like to, you think. There would be something cleansing about being caught in one, snow pressing down on you from all sides. You like snow, it's—you've already said all this.

But your brothers are scared. They come in slowly I BLAME YOU and sit nearby, looking terrified. You turn your head to look. One of them smiles awkwardly.

You don't speak.

"You look tired," Albus says.

You are tired. Tired of everything. Tired of the headlines about you and by people trying to run your life. Tired. You'd like to sleep. To properly sleep, not simply rest as you do. Sleep, where nothing disturbs you, like the bed checks you get or the insatiable craving that makes your stomach ache.

And then: "You scared us."

James says that. You remain silent. They look at each other and at you, the awkwardness obvious.

Finally: "I want food," you say.

They bring you food, the next day. Cold chicken, potato salad. They watch you eat, occasionally remembering they have paper plates too and trying to swallow something. You don't remember being this awkward around them. Has it always been like this?

"We want you to get better," James says when he hugs you.

"Please try," Albus whispers in your ear.

You wonder what he means by better. Better is an odd word, you think. You can't explain the meaning, it's too hard, but you think it's strange. Yes, a strange word. A comparative. They want you to be more than good but not your best. How does that make sense? Nothing makes sense I WANT MY PILLS anymore.

There is no answer for this, so you don't reply. Instead you curl under the covers and trace the blue veins through your pale skin, making two fingers march up your arm.

Your father taught you a Muggle rhyme about marching and hills as a child. (Side note: why is it that you say people 'march' when there is a month called March? Why? What's the point? You think you will try not to forget this so you can ask T—never mind). It had a duke in it and ten thousand men.

You remember it. You lie alone whispering it until you fall into a restless sleep where nightmares haunt you and you spend your time running from your family.

-:-

They (finally) send you home. Your parents and brothers come to collect you. They say they're happy and they smile a lot but their happiness looks fake. Like their grins have been painted on, like your family is dolls with the kind of smiles that look plastic. You comment on this.

They deny it.

They've brought the Muggle car and your father is driving it. You sit in the back, between your brothers LET ME OUT OF HERE I CAN'T BREATHE TOO MANY PEOPLE and stare out of the front window.

No-one talks. You have nothing to say and you doubt that anyone else does either. No, that's a lie. You have plenty to say but most of it is LEAVE ME ALONE GET AWAY or something along those lines. They won't listen.

No-one ever does listen to you.

Suddenly, you're home. How odd—you don't remember the motorway or the last fifty-two minutes. The entire family comes to the flat. Obviously it's your brother's home too but your parents never come unless invited. You haven't invited them. Why are they coming?

And then your room. Where you can escape. But they've done something to it—your things are gone. The bottle of orange—no, AMBER—liquid has gone; there are no drugs. The floorboards have gone and green carpet covers the floor. It's like grass. You sink to your knees. You like grass—as a child, you always had grass-stained knees and muddy cheeks WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO MY ROOM from playing outside.

"The drugs are gone," your mother tells you, one hand holding your father's tightly. "We got rid of them."

FUCK YOU you think but it comes out your mouth too. Your mother looks like you have slapped her as she ducks out of the room, leaving your father watching you. You say it again, directly to him, and he leaves too with the shimmer of tears in his eyes.

Good riddance.

You are a monster, you are alone. You wanted this. But now you know that you didn't want to be properly alone. You want the company of all the things you love best. You want the white powder back and the coloured pills and the whiskey. They've taken it all.

You smash your window with your fist for a reason you're not sure of. It just seems like the right thing to do. Glass rain falls to the streets below mixed with tears of blood. People look up WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT and you laugh.

But the noise has brought your brothers running. You stand, red streaming from your knuckles in the middle of fragments of glass, with your eyes glazed over again.

"What're you doing?" Albus asks you, sitting you down on your bed. You don't fight him. You're tired. "Why do you keep doing this?"

Because you want to, to be honest, but you doubt that is the answer that Albus wants.

-:-

The concern fades. It always does when you're involved. Albus gets a promotion, James gets a girlfriend. You get freedom and with that comes opportunity.

You 'relapse'.

But how is it relapsing when it's just like coming home? The headaches go, the sadness that eats you up from the inside vanish. You feel _good_. Manic, but good.

You take up your familiar seat on your windowsill and you can hear someone talking to you. You don't feel like looking—you feel like you can fly. Why turn around when there is wind in your hair? You are burning on the inside, blazing, and it hurts in the best possible way, like you are electric I AM HOME.

A hand on your arm. A nice hand, in your opinion, with long fingers. A familiar hand with a wedding ring.

You look at it, watching the light catch the ring WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING HERE and then you look up. Grey eyes, nice eyes you think, and hair that fades from darkest blue to palest green and back again. Chameleon hair.

"Hello," he says with a gentle smile.

You drop your glass. It falls slowly, a little like time is stilling and you curse yourself. Fucking waste of Firewhiskey. It lands on the street below like diamonds from a necklace on the pavement.

"I'll buy you another bottle."

You look back at him. He seems sincere so you do not comment. Instead you light a cigarette, offering him one as an afterthought.

"Why are you here?" you say, but, even to your own ears, it sounds more like "waiareyouheyyyyre". Go away, you don't want him here.

"I heard," is all he says and you sigh, pressing your face into your knees to breathe in the scent of your skin. He takes a cigarette and you sit side by side, legs hanging down, "I thought you were trying to get better."

"Oh, shut up," you snap, letting the cigarette fall from your fingers as you tug him towards you.

He kisses you with force and you battle for dominance, nails scraping over his skin so hard that you think you might draw blood. He growls into your mouth. You allow yourself to tighten your hold as you tumble backwards into the room, on fire for him and grinding against him because you want HIM SO BADLY to feel his touch.

Your back is against the wall THIS FEELS SO GOOD and his hands are exploring, mapping out a pattern over your body. Fingers curl about your protruding hipbones, teeth graze the exposed skin of your neck and your head falls back as you press your body closer. You crave his touch, the feeling of friction between your skin, the heat of him.

A moan rips through the room. Rips, such a strange description and fuck that now, fuck it all. His fingers move (with you, inside you) as though he is playing you like an instrument and you writhe, pressing your heels into his back until he groans into your neck. Fuck the oddness and unusual quirks of vocabulary—wrongness is alive in this room, looming around you as you fuck an older man with a band of gold on his finger and you regret nothing. You have no morals; his have clearly been left at home.

He slams you harder against the wall. You tug his hair, arching your back until you both fall to the floor. He takes you fully then, him thrusting into you, him pinning you down to the ground, grunting in your ear, you biting his shoulder hard enough to leave a ring of teeth marks.

Fireworks explode in greens and golds and silvers, colours popping and flashing brilliantly, blindingly. You can't tell if they're in your head or in the room around you but you know it's from the way he is moving with you, his breath hot against your neck.

The room fades and blurs back into focus. You have lost some time, you think. How did that happen? He is now sprawled next to you on the floor, his clothes in a heap and his body fully exposed. You're both naked, as naked as the day you were born.

Hunger.

Hunger, deep inside your stomach. You stand up, ignoring him. Where is it? You put it here somewhere, so where is it? You cannot remember SHIT WHERE IS IT I NEED IT and your mind is too clouded to think clearly.

"'S under your pillow," he says from the floor, watching you.

He's right. A bag, a bag with the magic powder that the Muggle man sells you. Relief. It washes through you, making your knees feel weak.

"'S here," you say unnecessarily, padding back to his side with it cradled in your hands. Precious, more precious than gold. More precious than anything. If you had to, you would sell a child to get more.

Oh, you probably shouldn't share that. You don't want people to think you're mad I'M INSANE because you're just addicted. Badly. Oh, so badly.

"I thought you'd kicked the cocaine," he says, head cocked to the side. Is this important right now?

"If you cared, you wouldnt've told me where it was," is all you respond, fingers fumbling in your haste. Your nails nearly snag the plastic FUCK I NEED THIS I NEED THIS I NEED THIS and you swear under your breath.

He takes it away from you, preparing it himself as you watch, fingers tapping and body shaking FUCKING HURRY UP I NEED IT with anticipation. Fucking hate the shivers, the way they twist through your body.

You take the drugs together, ignoring the worried voices in the hallway and the fact he has a wife at home and a desk in some office he's meant to be sat at. Fuck life, fuck jobs, fuck family. They cause pain but this—this takes it away.

Everything feels so much better at once.

-:-

He leaves you in the early hours of the morning. DON'T GO DON'T LEAVE ME You lie on your bed, feeling the warmth he had made recede as you tense your aching muscles. He dresses without a word to you, hiding the signs of your sins with a glamour charm.

"Fuck you," you say bluntly as he buttons his shirt up, your voice grating to your own ears and your lips cracked. Your voice is hoarse, it hurts to talk so you shut up. Why waste it on him when STAY WITH ME DON'T GO all he does is leave you?

He leaves in silence, the sound of the door closing echoing around your head and you wish he'd spoken to you because "fuck you" really means "I love you" in Lily-speak and WHY CAN'T HE UNDERSTAND THAT no-one really gets it.

So you find your special powder and your bottle of Firewhiskey and you find yourself soaring through the sky as you hang out the window. You are on fire, a snake born to lions and you have venom in your fangs and you feel the wind on your face as you fly to freedom.

The bottle slips from your fingers and smashes all the way down on the pavement below.

-:-

Albus finds you. You go back to rehab. A different one this time, with murals of green fields and sheep on the walls. Who the fuck thought that would be a good idea?

The Doctors ask you about your drug habit, about your mental health. You hate that—just the word mental makes you sound like you're criminally insane and I AM NOT MAD I AM NORMAL and it scares you.

You have to draw how you see yourself. It starts out well—red hair, green eyes—but then you get angry and you scribble black across it. They whisper.

"Acute bronchitis," the Doctor with the big nose and liver spots tells your family, "She has chest pains and some lung damage. All side effects from prolonged use."

You cover your ears and hum, rocking with your face pressed into your knees because I DON'T WANT TO HEAR THIS the truth hurts.

People watch you all the time. It's like being on a reality TV show, you think. You tell Albus and he looks at you like you are mental DON'T USE THAT WORD I HATE THAT WORD.

"Why do you do this to yourself?" he asks you and you tell him that it's not a choice.

Except you don't. Somehow, on the way to your mouth, your words get lost and you say the name, his name, the name you never want to say because it brings you pain and pleasure and, in all honesty, he's every bit as involved in this mess as you are.

"Teddy."

The sex, the drugs, the drink all come back to him. The burning desperation for him to notice, for the pain to end, for the meaningless shagging to turn into something special. He has fucked you up royally, in both senses of the word, and now you are here with a burnt out heart and a need for something to fill your veins.

Wetness. On your face, soaking your cheeks. You eyes sting and there is water on your fingers—tears. You're crying. It feels strange because you haven't cried for so long but here it is. It's not magical like it is in the books and you don't like the way your eyes react but you can't stop, you can't breathe.

Albus holds you close and you whimper into his chest. The nurses swarm around you—that's a good word to describe them, a swarm of nurses. You like it—and the Doctor is called. Your parents are told and James comes straight to your bedside.

"I'm going to kill him," James says and you believe him.

-:-

James doesn't kill him but he beats him bloody and then tells your cousin, Teddy's wife. You've ruined his marriage, you realise when Albus tells you HE'S ALL MINE NOW and you try not to feel too happy. He tries to come and see you but he's stopped at the door and you watch him being turned away from the window. You can't decide how to feel

Doctor Liver Spots pats you on the shoulder and you shudder because his hands are sweaty and meaty and DON'T TOUCH ME you don't like the feel of his palms. He irritates you because he likes philosophy and never shuts up about it. Most days you'd like to make him shut up.

"You're better now he's gone, Lily," he tells you but I DON'T FEEL BETTER NO COME BACK you don't answer.

But then the drugs drain from your system. It's hard at first—you spend days on end in bed, rocking back and forth with your fingers in your mouth and wild eyes. You feel like an untamed animal, you feel sick, you can't get air to your lungs—but then it eases slightly. The manic depression goes, you stop overanalysing, you drink coffee and don't bring it back up.

The Doctor's beam at each other and you're allowed on walks with your family. Dominique comes to show you her wedding photos, Victoire comes to tell you she blames Teddy not you and you try to ignore the strip of pale skin where her wedding ring had been and Rose brings you pornographic literature that would horrify most adults.

They all urge you to get better but you don't really know how.

"When you get out of here, what will you do?" the Doctor asks you every day.

Find a job, buy a broom, Floo to Australia just for an adventure. Fuck a politician, steal a dress, take up smoking like a woman in a French film. Find your dealer, get your own house, maybe buy a washing machine. Grow a tree, ride a bike, climb a mountain.

"I don't fucking know," you tell them every time, "Stop asking me."

But slowly you come around and tell them what they want to hear so you can leave the brightly painted murals and the smell of canteen dinners. So you can sleep in a room where they trust you to have a light fitting lest you decide to end it all one day.

"I'd like to maybe see the world," you say on the first day, "At least all of Europe."

"A job would be a starting point," you tell him the day after, eating jelly beans from the bowl on his desk.

"I think spending time with my family would be the best thing for me," you tell him a week later as you sit cross-legged on the floor, debating if you should delve into a Muggle religion for something new to do, "I need to move on from Teddy's influence and I need all of my family to help me."

They pronounce you to be stable after that and you can fold your clothes into a bag and go home. You get to Apparate with Albus this time, entering the Burrow to be surrounded by hugs and kisses and genuine warmth. You haven't seen Grandma Molly in seven months, not since you began to exist in a cloud of substances and she cries over the potatoes when you walk in.

Oh, it feels good to be back.

Teddy isn't there. Teddy isn't allowed to be there. Your father banned him from the house because, as much pain as you've caused your parents they will always love you the most.

And it's hard. It is fucking hard. You try to move on, to do something great. You go on a trip to Israel but you have to come home because your money runs out and besides, it's all bottled water, day trips and a swimming pool. You want freedom from _everything, _not a package holiday. You get a job and last three days in the Magical Law Office before you dump coffee on someone and walk out. It doesn't seem to be working.

But it comes. You last a month, then two, then three and then half a year. You feel good when you celebrate turning nineteen with a plastic tiara and family around you without a cocktail of drugs in your stomach. Your father actually looks proud of you when he hugs you, proud of _you_ for the first time in years and your cousins decide to take you partying in London.

"We won't leave her alone," they promise with you jammed between them, not sure if you want to go because London is a fucking big place.

You do go, though, and it's two in the morning when you trip back to the hotel with Dominique, the others hitting one last bar. But you're tired and she's two months pregnant (_don't tell anyone yet, Lily, we're waiting a little longer..._) so you decide it's time to go.

He's there, leaning against a lamppost with his hair flickering from red to white to green. How did he know you were going to be here? You feel dirty at the sight of him, like him simply being there has corrupted you when you're finally fresh with nothing in you to play with your mind or make you see things or think in mad snippets. And, okay, you're not quite normal yet but—

You are strong enough to deal with this.

You have to be, one step in front of the other, Lily, that's it. Dominique is holding your hand tightly, you can feel her rings cutting into your fingers, and he steps in front of you.

Shit, he looks older. He looks like the months have been years for him and they have made a timeline on his face. You want to ask what happened to him, why he looks so sad but you stay quiet and meet his gaze with your heart beating out a rhythm against your ribcage.

You know what happened to him. You did.

"_Lily_."

He says your name like a prayer, like he wants to fall to his knees and worship you. Like you are the one thing he has been looking for and you want to close the distance between you and him but you can't. Teddy drags you down, takes you to bad places when you make stupid decisions and walk the line between life and death, uncaring if you go too far.

He's worse for you than drugs, he corrupts you. You look away.

"Lily, I want to tell you—"

"Shut up."

You only mean to tell him to shut up but you shout it so loudly that he falters and steps back and you feel in control. You're in charge, on top of the world, you can do anything.

"_Lily—_"

"Shut up and leave me alone, Teddy."

You feel so proud of yourself then, like you could burst from it because _look what you've done_. You're strong, you aren't the little child who pushed needles into veins, smoked powder and snorted snow. You are made from steel and iron, unflinching and unbreakable. You smile at him, victorious, as you pull free of Dominique to cross the road.

"Lily, _NO_!"

Dominique's voice mingles with Teddy's, or maybe Teddy's voice mingles with Dominique's. You aren't too sure because you're in the middle of the traffic.

You forgot to look, fuck, you forgot. You always do that and you were too busy being impressed by yourself to remember and _shit. _

Too late, too late. Metal slams into your hip with force and you go down, the tarmac swinging up to meet you. It doesn't hurt when you fall and, in a way, the numbness is worse but it's also so fucking _peaceful_.

The sky spins, the stars blur. It's silent around you, you can't move and you're so _tired_. You know what's happening as you look back to the sky because it's better to look at than the rocks and broken bottles on the ground. It's hard to see now, the streetlights eclipsing your vision but you feel like you're halfway out of your body and it feels relaxing and—

So fucking typical that a bleeding Muggle car takes you down when—

You'll never buy that fucking washing machine—

Albus and James will be furious and you want to—

Everything is spinni—

It's hard to—

The lights are fading in front of your eyes and you're chilled to the bone.

You close your eyes.

* * *

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